Perhaps they are as much as we shall ever know of the beautiful.
— William Logan, Rift of Light

It was the word
glioblastoma
that brought you
there, a sudden
plunge in altitude
from sobriety
into plummeting
sadness, the darkness
that envelops hearts
of mothers, irrespective
of species, regardless
of caste,
when they hold or
behold the death
of children, children
they claim,
irresponsibly, as
property.

But this is different.
I’ve consigned my
heart to you and so
my soul and so my
avalanche of cryptic
thoughts, of doom,
of life, of a world
of light beyond this
tunnel. I breathe
because you let
me. I live because
you make it so.

Written at 10:35 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.